


Listen to Me

by Wind_Ryder



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Autistic Character, Brothers, Depression, Family, Mentions of Character Death, Mentions of Suicide, Non-verbal Autism, Possible Suicidal Thoughts, first person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 21:36:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1663310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My life is measured by words. Words, communication, talking, understanding. You cannot be a true person if you cannot speak. I don’t speak; therefore I am not a true person. I can see the world as it is. I can hear the sounds of life around me. I can taste the dirt under my nails. I can smell the sweat on my brow. Yet for all of those senses and talents that I have been bestowed, none of it matters. </p><p>Words matter. Words are the only thing that seem to matter to anyone, and no one listens to mine. </p><p>_________________________________________________________</p><p>Sherlock is a non-verbal autistic, and he lives his life struggling to communicate with a world that doesn't listen to what he has to say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Listen to Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nauticus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nauticus/gifts).



> This story was difficult to write. As I am not a non-verbal autistic, I researched it as closely as I could. I received help from several people and news articles. Special thanks to Transponderer (via Tumblr) for all the advice given to complete this prompt. 
> 
> This prompt was posted by Nauticus, and I hope I filled it to her satisfaction. 
> 
> This work has not had a beta reader. Let me know if you see any errors.

My life is measured by words. Words, communication, talking, understanding. You cannot be a true person if you cannot speak. I don’t speak; therefore I am not a true person. I can see the world as it is. I can hear the sounds of life around me. I can taste the dirt under my nails. I can smell the sweat on my brow. Yet for all of those senses and talents that I have been bestowed, none of it matters.

 

Words matter. Words are the only thing that seem to matter to anyone, and no one listens to mine.

 

My earliest memories are of noise, shattered sounds with screeching echoes that mount higher and higher until my skull feels as though it is split open and ravaged. My teeth ache in my mouth from the pressure of the sound, trembling down my throat and vibrating my gums. My windpipe spasms, my lungs freeze, and for one solitary moment I cease to exist. I am blotted out by the overwhelming strength of the noise, and I never matter to any of it.

  
If I scrunch up my face, cover my ears, twist away from the madness and the power behind those significant fluctuations of voice: I am disempowered. The voices rise louder, the anger increases, and I don’t understand why _they_ can’t realize what they’re doing is wrong.

 

I learn quickly which words are good, which ones are bad. I understand what the words mean, how they’re meant to be formed. I watch the arch of their lips, the movement of their noses, the angle of their eyes. I see their lungs breathe air in and push sound out. I know how the words are formed. I know what they mean when they are uttered.

 

I am not stupid, though I am frequently called retarded.

 

I _understand_.

 

I understand, and I know. I know what they are saying, and I know what they mean. I know everything that they direct towards me, but because I don’t speak back- they don’t know what I’m trying to say.

 

They don’t know that when I shake my head, pull back, it means I don’t want to do whatever they ask of me. They don’t know that when I look at something fascinating, I don’t want to leave it. They don’t know that the noise can become too loud. The perfume can become too fragrant. The sand is too granular. The wind, too prickly. I’m cold, all the time. But they don’t understand why I want a sweater on, my skin hidden away from the swishing air that feels uncomfortable against my flesh.

 

I like the way words look on paper. They are quiet, innocuous things with straight serifs and looping twirls. I like how the words on paper change depending on who is writing them. Each person has their own style, their own unique part of themselves that is printed on the page. Excited slashes and triumphant pauses, emotions poured into the indentations on the leafs that I can touch. Each piece of paper feels smooth and pleasurable under my fingers.

 

“What’s he doing?” Reading. “Can he read those?” Yes. Yes of course I can read them.

 

“No, he’s just retarded, he doesn’t have any idea what it says.” The words spoken out loud are wrong. They’re completely wrong. I try to show that they’re wrong, but all it gets me is the paper being pulled away. “Leave it alone. Go stare at a rock.” But rocks aren’t interesting, not like the written words that I _can_ understand.

 

I know what the people around me call me. Embarrassment. Stupid. Wrong. Crazy. Brat. My mother yells at them constantly, raising her voice and shouting back to each loudly spoken word and phrase. She’s defending me, but it’s painful. Each word shaking down my spine and sending electric sparks through my brain. I pull away from them all, sit in my room, stay in my space.

 

I’m not a prisoner. They don’t lock me here. But the families and the neighbors, and the other people _out there_ think they do. Everyone always wants to pull me away, pull me out of where I feel is safe. If I really am a prisoner, than the outside world is my captor.

 

I like to sit in the sun, reading and writing, pulling a pen across the page and telling them exactly what I think of. My father reads each thing I write. He likes to write back. Writing is easier. Writing is so much easier. It feels better, it’s not aggressive, it’s not violent. The sound and the chaos and the feelings of being _too much_ are taken away. We write back and forth over and over, and then I write to my mother, my brother.

 

I’m six when Mycroft makes sound beautiful. He plays the piano. He runs his fingers across the keys, depressing each one and bringing the sounds out and through the air. I can sit, watch, listen, and feel the noise as it plays through my body. Mycroft tells me letters, notes, instructions.

 

Words liked to slip into even the music he played. A, B, C, D, E, F, G.

 

G-A-G

 

C-A-B

 

D-A-B

 

D-A-D

 

D-E-A-D

 

F-E-D

 

I liked listening for words and each time he played one, on purpose or on accident, I tugged on his arm and waved my hands to him. He smiled and nodded, playing on and on. I listened for more words, words made just for me, and he always obliged.

 

Sometimes I wish I could speak.

 

The words come to my mouth, familiar and innocuous. I recognize them, can feel their sound shape my mouth, molding my tongue and lips to form their presence in reality. The words freeze in my mouth. Not my throat. They freeze on my lips, refusing to give final shape. The mouth can’t make them. It opens and closes, it shapes the embouchure of the letters I want to make, and nothing escapes.

 

Sometimes I want to speak, want to say what’s wrong, what’s happening, because unless you speak the words out loud, no one truly believes that you can communicate. I know how the write, but no one believes it. No one except my immediate family.

 

Mummy hired a teacher to come by and teach me how to play piano. The man was vile. He stretched my fingers over the keys, pushed my hands into position, organized my arms. I don’t like him touching me. I don’t like him moving me. I don’t like him near me, hovering, smelling. I don’t like how he leans over my back, pressed against my spine and breathing over my neck.

 

“You can’t even speak can you? Can’t say a word.” I try to pull away, but he forces me in place with the piano pressed against my stomach. His hands are holding me still, and he’s too close, too tight, too interested. “You couldn’t complain…couldn’t tell anyone.”

 

Mummy’s not there, she’d gone for some tea. Mycroft’s reading in the other room. Daddy’s not home. He’s holding on too tight, and I don’t like it. “Nnn…nnn…”

 

“What’s that?” He asks, threading a hand through my curls.

 

B-A-D

 

B-A-D

 

Second finger, first, fourth. Second finger, first, fourth. Second finger, first, fourth.

 

“Stop that. Stop that now.” His hands are moving, moving, moving.

 

B-A-D

 

B-A-D

 

B-A-D

 

“Get your hands off him this instant.” Mycroft is there. He pulls the teacher off, and I push away from the piano. I run out of the room, ignore what Mycroft’s saying. That’s not important. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to play. I don’t want to play.

 

My fingers keep tapping out letters to words that only exist on skeleton keys. Second finger, first, fourth. Again and again. I’m frightened. I’m scared. I’m not alone. Mycroft’s followed me. Something’s changed. There’s shouting downstairs. Mummy. He pulls my arm. He holds me close. Tight, embracing, comforting, safe.

 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Mycroft isn’t making sense. He stopped him. Why is he sorry? I shake my head and hug him back. “Never again.” He promised. “That will never happen again.” I nod against him. My fingers still tapped out the letters against his back. He held me closer.

 

I don’t play the piano again.

 

Daddy teaches me the violin instead.

 

That, I play all the time. I like feeling of violin the strings beneath my fingers. I like the vibrations though my collarbone, and when I play, I feel like I can speak.

 

Mycroft listens for the words in the songs I play. He understands. He plays words back on the piano. I won’t touch the piano again, but if Mycroft plays it, I’ll listen. Mycroft and I once spent eight hours straight playing to each other. Sometimes he led and I followed, and other times I led and he followed.

 

I play each word over and over as I think them. I write sentences in my head and sound them out through music. I try to tell my family I know what they’re saying, but save for Mycroft: no one listens. They don’t understand.

 

Mycroft brings home a book and slowly takes my hands in his. “This means, ‘hello.’” He says, and I make the sign again. It goes from there. He shows me his hands, he holds up objects. He spends the time to teach, and I spend the time to learn. Our parents learn too. It’s all going well, until Mycroft leaves for school.

 

While I continue learning BSL, he writes me letters. He sends me more books to read, more pictures of things I might like, more toys. He tells me about mystery and learning and places where words on paper matter more than words spoken out loud.

 

People lie. He tells me this constantly. He reminds me of it every time we’re alone. People lie. They cheat. They steal. They’re bad. I don’t like thinking about that. I don’t like thinking about that. I don’t like considering that to be true. But he takes my hands and he gives me my violin and he tells me to listen, and then he plays.

 

Mycroft is scared. There are people out there that are frightening, and Mycroft fears them. He won’t tell anyone else, but he’ll tell me. I wonder sometimes if its because he doesn’t think I have anyone to tell his secrets to.

 

He’s right.

Mummy and Daddy have me take tests. They show me letters, numbers, words. I know what they mean, and I know that they’re wrong. I fix them. I make them right. I have to put them right. And when I’m done- I’m told I’m smart. I tap my second finger, first, fourth. B-A-D.

 

I’m not smart, I know what that means, and I can’t be smart and retarded at the same time. The outside world has called me stupid my whole life. How can I be both now? My parents are insistent. I’m a genius. I’m brilliant. I’m a savant trapped in my own head. But I can see the words for what they are, and they’re wrong. They’re lies. The examiners don’t see, or smell, or touch, or taste, or hear like I do. They don’t understand me, but they understand each other. The think I’m spectacular because I can do maths. I think they’re spectacular because they can speak. Can’t they understand how much more important that is? I’m reminded of it every day of my life.

 

My parents are encouraged to send me to away. Away to a special school filled with special children who are all just as brilliant and wonderful as I am. I’ve never truly understood sarcasm, but I’m fairly certain that quantified. I write to Mycroft and ask if I’m an idiot, or if I’m a genius. He tells me I’m neither. I still don’t understand.

 

They send me away.

 

Mycroft argued against it. He signs while he speaks, practicing, and he was signing as he yelled at our parents. I played B-A-D again and again while he shouted louder and louder. “He doesn’t want to go!”

 

“He doesn’t know what he wants. He’s brilliant, and he can’t just stay here. These people know what’s best for him!”

 

“He can be brilliant _here_.”

 

Mummy and Daddy don’t understand the signs that I tried to make, and they barely understand what Mycroft is saying out loud. I play “A” fourteen times, then rest. I play it fifteen times. Rest. Mycroft looks towards me. He’s angry. I don’t know why.

 

“Don’t send him away.” He requests.

 

I’m sent away anyway. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only one who listens. What’s the point in learning how to communicate, if no one listens to what I have to say?

 

The school is a special school filled with special children. We’re all called “special.” It’s wrong. We used to be called retarded, until someone thought it wasn’t nice. Special isn’t better. Special is just another word for wrong.

 

The teachers insist on speaking in pitched voices. Baby whines with highs and lows that are annoying and tingle my ears. I don’t understand why they do that. I don’t want to. I don’t like the people around me. I don’t like how some start talking slowly, sounding out words like I’m deaf or can’t think properly.

 

They applaud when I write a grammatically correct sentence. They cheer when I solve math problems. They give me more to work on, and I wonder what the point of it is. I sign the word for ‘no’ as much as I can. They don’t listen to it. They don’t even acknowledge it.

 

“Sound this out for me, Sherlock.” They say, before slowly enunciating a word I have no interest in trying to make. I sign the word for ‘no.’

 

Sometimes I wonder who has the communication problem.

 

Them or me?

 

“They’re just idiots.” Mycroft told me when he finally was able to visit. I wasn’t allowed to leave to see him. Like a prison, Mycroft seethed. This time it’s fairly accurate. I smiled at him anyway, touched his suit, looked at his fingers. I missed him. I signed the word for piano. “I haven’t played in a while.” He admitted, sighing. Music was ours. Ours, and it’s gone now. I’m not allowed to play my violin in my room. It makes the other students upset.

 

He asks to look at my chemistry work. I show it to him. I know he’s impressed, because his mouth twists upwards and he always signs when he tells the truth. “Good.” He signs to me. “Very good.”

 

“Thank you.” I sign.

 

“You’re welcome.” He signs back.

 

The teachers, who really are more like doctors and scientists, are trying everything they can think of to get me to speak. Sometimes I wonder if I could do it if I wanted to. I don’t want to. It doesn’t matter if I speak or not, no one cares what I have to say.

 

They change my diet. No gluten. No casein.

 

I’m given supplements. TMG. DMG. P-5-P. Flax seeds. Omegas.

 

They try a yeast treatment.

 

I spend hours with them. When I’m not taking their tests, learning about chemistry and organic biology, I’m being coached on how to speak. Sometimes I wish I were deaf. Then perhaps I would have an excuse. No one seems to care if the deaf can’t speak. But they care that I don’t.

 

I’m only allowed to play my violin when I’m in these sessions. They call it therapeutic. I just like it. I can play and thru it I can speak, and even if they don’t listen or understand the words I make- I can describe words and feelings just as well as they can. They want me to hum and to sing along with the songs I’m playing. I don’t want to.

 

Sometimes I feel the vibrations in my throat, but my mouth crumbles and my tongue shrivels up. My forebrain sends electric sparks down my spine. No. Not right. Not okay. I don’t want to. _No_. The top of my mouth aches as it flounders about on a word that’s not coming.

 

I sit in the hall and listen as they talk to my parents. “He’s never going to learn how to speak.” They tell them. “This can happen.”

 

“You said you’d be able to help him. You said he’d be okay.” Mummy’s disappointed. I tap my fingers on my leg. Second finger, first, fourth.

 

“Sometimes there’s nothing that can be done. He has a remarkable IQ. His reasoning skills are far advanced for his age. If we continue with the sign language education, then he’ll be able to integrate.”

 

“He’ll never be normal.” Second finger, first, fourth.

 

“No. He’ll never be normal.”

 

Second finger, first, fourth.

 

B-A-D.

 

I go to University with an aide, and a scholarship. I study chemistry, and I don’t talk to the other students. They don’t try to talk to me. They do talk _at_ me. I sit in class and I listen to them speak.

 

“Who let Rain Man in?”

 

“Retard.”

 

“Freak.”

 

“Pyscho.”

 

“Stupid.”

 

“Creep.”

 

I don’t bother to try to show I understand what they’re saying. I write dozens of pages of notes. I do my work. I impress my professors, who never look at me when they talk. They always look to my aide. It’s as though I’m invisible. I sign, my aide translates, and my professors acknowledge only my aide. I’m removed from their eyes. I don’t exist.

 

I stop trying to sign to my professors.

 

It doesn’t seem to help.

 

Occasionally the other students will become brave and attempt a conversation. They’ll talk loudly, as though I can’t hear, they’ll misinterpret what I’m trying to convey. They won’t listen when I make it clear I’m unhappy or dissatisfied. My aide is next to useless. It’s not his job to fix my nonexistent social life, and when the stress becomes too much, I find my fingers refuse to cooperate. Frustration floods me. I can’t speak. Can’t sign. Can’t do anything but stand there gawking as I’m belittled and mocked over and over and over again. It’s awful.

 

To get away from them, from their words and their idiocy, I go for walks sometimes. Mycroft doesn’t like it. He thinks that I’m going to get myself into trouble, that I’ll be hurt. He thinks that I need an aide with me at all times, just in case I end up in a situation where someone _has_ to understand. He asks me constantly if my aide is there. He calls him my “companion.” I loathe the word more than “aide.” At least one doesn’t make it seem like I need my brother to hire my friends for me. Mycroft insists that I have the man dog my steps and answer my questions. Except, the aide’s gotten clever and doesn’t translate everything properly. He adds inflections and words that I don’t mean, and doesn’t do what I want.

 

I go for walks without him, because damn my brother, damn my aide, and damn the rest of the world who can’t seem to listen or understand.

 

I’m old enough to walk by myself.

 

I’m old enough to get into trouble by myself too.

 

His name is Victor Trevor. He has a bull terrier who likes to bite my ankle when I walk through the park. Granted, it only happened once. Once is more than enough.

 

I fell to the ground, gasping and feeling tears press against my eyes as my head starts to spin uncontrollably. I cry. I grip my ankle and try to pull away. Victor apologizes over and over. He pulls his dog away, and he looks around for help. The bystanders don’t want to get involved. Some even recognize me from school and mutter _freak_ under their breath.

 

“He’s a retard.” One explains to Victor when he asks why they’re just standing there.

 

“What do you mean?” Victor asks even as he starts fretting over how my ankle is swelling.

 

“He doesn’t speak. He’s deaf and dumb, and there’s really no point to him being in Uni to begin with.”

 

Then Victor does something I’ve never seen anyone else do before. He turns to look back at me, and signs “I’m sorry.” I sign back.

 

“It’s fine.”

 

“What’s your name?” He signs.

 

“S-h-e-r-l-o-c-k.” I finger spell for him. He wouldn’t understand the shorthand version.

 

“I’m Victor.” He finger-spelt for me as well, but he needn’t have bothered. “Do you want to go to the hospital?” I looked at my ankle. It was hurting rather badly.

 

“Yes.” I told him with my hands.

 

“May I help you up?”

 

“Yes.”

 

I am twenty-two years old. I have my first conversation with a stranger.

 

I understand why everyone praises conversations as being something to look forwards to.

 

I like it.

 

Victor becomes my first friend. He visits me in the hospital. He apologizes for his dog. He brings me books and talks about my major. We discuss endless topics. The first being that I’m not actually deaf. He takes it in stride, and doesn’t seem concerned with the fact that not being deaf is an inappropriate reason for not speaking. He doesn’t even question it. His sign language is impeccable, and while he’s not casting judgment, he explains that his parents were deaf, and for most of his life he spoke via signs. He says its easier for him, and that the prefers to speak via sign language anyway.

 

He doesn’t seem to realize that he’s the first stranger I’ve met who doesn’t feel compelled to remind me that I’m stupid, retarded, or (as my aide and psychologists insist on calling it) autistic. Instead, he just signs away, and I follow along because it’s _wonderful_.

 

He’s an archaeologist. He’s going to Egypt when he graduates to study the Valley of the Kings. I think about the sand and the heat and the language problems and I know that I’ll never go. I think I’ll miss him, and I tell him that.

 

“I’ll miss you too.” He signs back.

 

I believe him.

 

Mycroft doesn’t think highly of Victor. He is concerned Victor will be a problem will somehow hurt me. Will break my heart. I tell Mycroft that I don’t have emotions, I can’t have a heart to break. He tells me my therapists are wrong, and always have been. I’m reminded that people lie. Who’s lying now? The doctors? Victor? Mycroft? Or myself?

 

I like Victor. I like having someone I can talk to. I like having the chance to feel like a person. I like that he looks at me, not my aide. I like that he never questions what I want. I like that he’s willing to listen.

 

That’s what it all comes down to in the end.

 

I want someone to listen to me.

 

And Victor listens.

 

He listens until he leaves. He promises to write, and he leaves for Egypt. I’m left with an aide I hate, a school that despises me, an over protective sibling, and an overwhelming silence that digs into my brain.

 

Victor does write. He writes often and includes photographs of his exploits. I entertain the thought of going to Egypt. I play desert-themes songs on my violin, and I send the sheet music to Victor to look at. He sends me real music back. He doesn’t complain that he can’t read music. He promises he’ll learn.

 

I graduate in the spring. Unnoticed, alone, and with only an aide at my side. My brother is busy at work. My parents were busy with something else. I get my diploma and I wonder what I’m meant to do now.

 

I don’t have a job lined up. I know I can’t interview. I know that I’m useless as far as the job market is concerned. I fire my aide. I return to my flat, read a congratulatory letter from Victor, and stare at the walls. Mycroft promises to come by for dinner to celebrate.

 

Mycroft is four days too late.

 

He comes in to see me, and he is met with sharp jerks of my bow against my violin’s strings. He doesn’t ask why I’m upset. I’m playing F-E-D over and over again, and he understands the message.

 

“I’m sorry.” He says. He doesn’t sign. I don’t care.

 

I’m not important. I’m not special. I’m not worth noting. My diploma sits on my desk collecting dust. It’s become a place mat, and nothing more. It’s not like I can do anything with it. I’m lost, adrift, alone.

 

Perhaps that’s the point. Perhaps being around the people of the world just hurts so much more. Alone, I don’t have to listen to them. Alone, I don’t have to feel inadequate. Alone, I don’t have to feel _special_. Alone, I am merely me. Merely me, and that is it.

 

I don’t like being alone.

 

I don’t like being with other people either.

 

I want to be alone.

 

The days I don’t hear from anyone I feel the worst.

 

The days I’m surrounded by people I feel like I’m suffocating.

 

I read the newspaper in my flat. Mycroft pays for everything. I never have to leave. I’ve imprisoned myself, and it’s lovely. I’m my own captor. I can look out the window and hear the sounds of life, and pretend that I can be one of them. It’s suffocatingly boring, but it’s better than tricking myself into thinking I might actually belong.

 

I read the newspaper.

 

I see the mistakes. I see the crimes. I wonder about them.

 

I write to Scotland Yard.

 

No one listens.

 

They never have.

 

I write to Scotland Yard frequently. Each time a crime is written about, I research them thoroughly. I tell the detectives where they went wrong, and what they should be looking for.

 

No one writes back.

 

Sometimes I wonder if the letters actually leave the flat. If anyone on the other side is reading them. It’s paranoid, and I know it’s foolish. I still change the postal box and wait until the truck comes to collect the letters for shipment.

 

I watch them, and wonder if they’ll make it to the Met.

 

No one listens.

 

It’s not any different. It doesn’t matter if I spoke out loud or not. No one would care. No one would pay any attention. No one ever has. No one ever will.

 

Victor comes by for a visit. He asks if I’m depressed. I don’t know. I can’t tell if this is different from how I’ve always been or not. I can’t have been born depressed, and I don’t feel like things have changed. I feel like it’s always been this way, and so I tell him I’m not.

 

“Things will get better.” He signs to me. Always signs. I wonder if he does it for him or for me.

 

I’m scared to know the answer. It might change things.

 

I don’t want it to change.

 

“No it won’t.” I inform him with a flurry of fingers and arms.

 

He returns to Egypt, and I return to my solitude. I continue writing letters. I continue working on my chemistry equipment. Mycroft continues being overbearing. He doesn’t play piano with me anymore. I spend his money to buy a small standup to squeeze into the corner of the flat. I hate how it looks. I can only bring myself to play three notes. I don’t like it. I feel vile with it anywhere near me. I just want Mycroft to play with me.

 

He won’t. He doesn’t even glance at it. I try to encourage him to do it. I try to get him to just play one song. He won’t. “Not now.” He says. He’s always busy. Work.

 

 

 

I will never have work. I’m not allowed. Not capable. Not smart enough. I’m smart enough to learn, smart enough to solve problems on a page. Not smart enough to get a job. Not smart enough to be human.

 

I mix chemicals together in my kitchen, and I marvel at the effects they have when I ingest them. Sometimes I wonder if I mean to overdose or not. When I wake up in the hospital, I realize I hadn’t quite made a decision on that yet.

 

Mycroft is furious. He yells. He screams. My head rings and my hands go to cover my ears, but he yanks them down and yells louder. My head hurts. My eyes squeeze close and I shake back and forth to get away. Second finger, first, fourth. Second finger, first fourth. He swats at my hands. I stop tapping, but can’t bring myself to sign. I shut my eyes and try to twist away. He wont’ let me go.

 

“Stupid! Idiot! Why would you do that?!” I don’t want to listen. I don’t want to hear. I don’t want to be with him. I just want it all to stop. I know I’m stupid. I know I’m an idiot. I’m not even really a person, and I certainly can’t exist as a member of society. It’s _obvious_ why I would do it.

 

No one listens.

 

Mycroft thinks Victor broke my heart and now won’t let me write any letters to him. I have a full time aide that stays with me, keeping an eye on me, monitoring everything. I eat at scheduled intervals. I sleep at scheduled intervals. I’m not allowed to fire her.

 

I wonder if my resolve has strengthened. I wonder if I’ve made a decision yet.

 

The Yard writes back.

 

DI Greg Lestrade visits me late one evening. He knocks on my door, and my aide answers it. He pushes inside and he strides towards me. He asks me questions and he only takes note of the aide in so far as she’s translating for me. He slaps a bundle of letters onto my desk.

 

“You were right. About everything.” Lestrade tells me. “Explain to me how.”

 

It takes hours.

 

Hours and hours and hours.

 

Days pass.

 

Lestrade comes back for more each time. More letters. More cases. More crimes left unsolved.

 

He shows me cold cases. He shows me errors. He shows me crime scene photos. I look at them and I see the patterns. I see the mistakes. I see the errors. I tell him everything I can think of. He doesn’t take his eyes off me.

 

He _listens_.

 

And after three months: he learns.

 

He starts signing back. He starts to finger spell and communicate, and soon my aide is just extra baggage. He can understand my signs, and he is willing to step into my comfort zone by signing back. He doesn’t have to do it. I know what he’s saying, I can hear and understand just fine. He does it anyway.

 

Because it’s how _I_ speak.

 

I solve a case as soon as it happens. Lestrade takes me out to dinner. I’m terrified the whole while. I look around me nervously. I see all the people as they walk by. I hear all the clinks and clanks of the diners. I hear the off key music, and the words that are being played. I’m anxious. I’m uncomfortable. I’m uncertain.

 

Lestrade asks if I’ll do it again.

 

I say yes. God, _yes_ , because solving the puzzle was brilliant, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

 

He signs me on as an official consultant by the end of the week. He keeps me at his side, and he takes me to crime scenes. I’m under no obligation to speak to or associate with any member of his staff, and so I don’t. It’s for the best.

 

I think they’re idiots.

 

They don’t think I can hear them talk, and they don’t realize that Lestrade doesn’t like it when they call me names. I solve his crimes because they’re fun, fascinating, interesting, puzzles. He makes sure that I’m left alone, and that I can do my work without having to say a word.

 

When Lestrade declares himself fluent, we fire my aide together. Mycroft is informed of my decision, and with Lestrade’s help- he actually listens. He admits that he never liked her to begin with. I hate him for foisting her on me, and not _listening_ when I wanted her gone.

 

I can’t tell if my brother is happy or furious with the changes in my life. He doesn’t try to stop it, but he is always monitoring it.

 

After every successfully completed case, Lestrade takes me out to dinner to celebrate. We celebrate a lot, and we usually go to the same restaurant. The staff there is used to me. They don’t question when I point to items on the menu instead of speaking them out loud, and Lestrade will help clarify if it’s something particularly odd or complex. I ask him about the dinners, and he explains that the idea of me going home and being alone is sad to him. “I wish you had someone to go home to, Sherlock.” He tells me, nudging me towards my food an insisting that I eat more.

 

I don’t like eating too much. It makes my stomach feel heavy and my head filled with cotton. I become tired and I don’t like how sluggish I feel. I’d rather have hunger pains than that. Lestrade says it’s unhealthy. I spent enough time studying organic biology to know he’s right. I still don’t like it.

 

“I’ll never date anyone.” I inform him. “I don’t want a relationship.”

 

“It doesn’t have to be a relationship.” Lestrade replied, shaking his head. “Just someone so that you’re not alone all the time.”

 

“I don’t want another aide.” I tell him furiously.

 

“No! That’s not what I meant. Bollocks.” He scowls at his pasta and then carefully signs the words he means. “I’m worried that if something happened, a fire, a burglary, a fall down the stairs, you would be alone and wouldn’t have any way of asking for help or getting the attention of the bastards who live next door.”

 

I think about it. He’s right. If I actually needed to call for help, I don’t even have a phone. They’re pointless devices. I can’t talk on them anyway. I consider my options.

 

In the morning, I drag him to the shops with me and we find a mobile with texting capabilities. I charge it to my brother’s card, and immediately start tapping away at the keys. Letters and words appear on the screen and they zing off immediately to Lestrade’s phone. He squints at the words and he sighs.

 

“You’re really making me learn how to talk, that’s for sure.” Lestrade commented as he struggled to figure out how to make his mobile text. I find myself grinning at the phrasing.

 

I’m teaching _him_ how to talk.

 

Doesn’t he realize he’s helping _me?_

 

We spend a lot of time together. He takes me to meet his wife, his kids. They’ve been learning sign language as well. The kids are better than his wife, who looks at Lestrade for help whenever she’s trying to figure out what I’m saying. He translates, but he always encourages her to respond by looking back at me. I appreciate it.

 

We get called in to look at crimes at all hours of the night. He starts texting me to let me know when I have to be someplace. I start texting him the answer to crimes he hasn’t consulted me on. He calls me a brat. I continue calling him Lestrade. Or rather, I’ve changed his sign-name to ‘Grey.’ He scowls. He thinks I’m calling him old.

 

I am.

 

But it’s also something else. The closest sign-name equivalent to my real name is red-hair. Calling attention to his hair seems…logical. He’s the closest thing I’ve had to understanding since I was in University. It’s important to me.

 

Years pass. Victor comes and goes more and more infrequently. I still write him letters. He sends me a skull for my thirtieth birthday. I like it, and set it on the mantle for later. Victor insists it’s not a mummy, but something he was given permission to borrow indefinitely from a museum. I’m going to run tests on it when I get a chance.

 

I move into a flat procured by my brother. Baker Street. The landlady is a kind old woman, who I take to calling ‘Aunt.’ She doesn’t understand a word I sign, but she always brings me tea and gives me peace when I ask for it. She leaves me alone to my experiments for the most part. Sometimes she comes up and spends hours talking about Florida and her husband that she’d run away from. For all of her lack of understanding as far as signing goes, she’s rather good at realizing when I don’t want her there. She departs when I get annoyed with her, and that’s rather good.

 

Mycroft stops by once, and scans the flat with mild curiosity. “There’s no piano.” He comments, arching a brow at me.

 

I play F-E-D at him on my violin. He gets angry enough to leave, and angry enough to threaten to cut my weekly allowance. The rent is going to be a problem if he does that, but I can’t bring myself to care.

 

I don’t like the piano. I don’t want anything to do with the piano. I hate its existence. But I bought it because I wanted him to play with me like we used to, and he never did. I wasn’t going to bring it with me. I’m leaving things I don’t like far behind.

 

A group of strange suicides crop up. I text Lestrade about it. I inform him of all of my thoughts, all of my reasoning. He ignores them. He tells me I’m not on this case. I _hate_ being ignored. I throw my phone onto my desk and sulk on my sofa and ignore him for the next four cases just to prove a point.

 

Mycroft continues to quibble over money.

 

I think I’m starting to hate him.

 

I go to St. Barts Hospital to practice my chemistry in a controlled environment. (Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson had rules about me running tests in my flat unsupervised.) Molly Hooper helps the police with autopsies, and she gives me access to anything I want. She learned BSL in University, knowing that it was needed in hospital settings. She likes to practice on me, and I indulge it. It gets me what I want.

 

Mike Stamford stops by with a colleague, and they chat about work and chemistry. I’m partway through a discovery, and wonder if Lestrade’s ready to stop being an idiot, when I realize I’ve left my phone downstairs. I wave at Molly to get her attention and ask if she has a phone I could use. She doesn’t, and consults Mike. He doesn’t either. Mike asks his colleague, how offers it with a smile. 

 

“Here, mate.” He says to me, not Molly, and holds the phone out. I touch my fingers to my lips and draw it away.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome.” He replies, surprisingly. I frown, wonder if he knows how to sign, or just knows the obvious ones.

 

“Sorry, that’s about all I know.” He tells me before I have a chance to ask. I nod slowly, and look down at the phone. I send off a quick text to Lestrade, and hand it back to him. I sign out a question, and Molly is quick to translate.

 

Sometimes her urge to help really is very helpful.

 

“What’s you’re name?” She asks for me.

 

“John, John Watson.” I sign again quickly, and Molly falters. Scowling, I look around, and find a pen and paper near by. I usually have one at hand if I can’t manage to get my fingers to work right.

 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” I write out. He reads it.

  
“Afghanistan…how did you know?” He looks to Mike. “You’ve told him about me?”

 

“Not a word.” Mike replies shaking his head. He’s grinning. He’s seen this ‘trick’ before. Everyone at Bart’s has.

 

“Well then how did he-” I start writing again. I tell him everything I can think of. I write it all out, from his brother’s drinking habit (obvious by the look of his phone), to his medical and military career. He reads it over. “How do you know?” He asks, sputtering slightly.

 

“You’re looking for a place to live?” I ask him, drawing out the letters as neatly as possible. I’m not usually this impulsive, but I feel like the wind is changing for the better. Besides, at the very least it’ll drive Mycroft mad. That had to count for something.

 

John came over to look at the flat. He liked it, and agreed to move in. Mycroft got to him almost immediately, and was promptly told to fuck off. I like my new roommate more and more with each passing moment.

 

We go to investigate the serial suicides together, and I text him every observation and idea that comes to mind. He seems surprised I can text so quickly. He shouldn’t be. Aside from BSL, writing and texting are the only ways I can get the outside world to take notice in me.

 

The answer to the suicide riddle hits me the moment that I step back out onto the pavement after examining Jennifer Wilson’s body. I text it to Lestrade. It’s a cab. They all got into the same cab. Surveillance footage would prove it. But just to be sure, John and I go in search of her phone. We don’t find it, but we find her case. The number is on it, and I send it to Lestrade. He can contact the phone company to get access to its records.

 

In less than an hour, he’s knocking on my door again. “Dinner?” He asks, grinning as he looks at me.

 

“Found the killer?”

 

“Mr. Hope isn’t going to be encouraging anyone to commit suicide any longer.” He affirms, clapping his hand on my shoulder. “Job well done. Now come on. I owe you dinner.” We invite John along to our traditional meal.

 

He asks if its always like this, and we agree it usually is. It suits him just fine.

 

Living with John becomes an interesting twist on my existence thus far. He keeps his phone with him in case I need to get his attention, but when he’s irritated with me he’ll turn it off. No amount of signing will mean anything at all to him. He counts it as a victory, because he won’t need to listen to what I’m trying to say. I count it as _infuriating_ , because no one else has a mute button on their flatmate.

 

It doesn’t usually come to that. Usually we get on just fine. But there are a few moments where it does happen, and I am angry enough to throw things at him until he turns the phone back on. “You’re not a child, Sherlock. Use your words.” He recognizes he mistake as soon as he says it, and immediately apologizes. I couldn’t care less, and march out of the flat.

 

“Why _don’t_ you speak?” He asks me one evening while I’m plucking away at my violin. I want a case. I play every variation of: B-A-D-G-E I can think of. He doesn’t realize that I’ve been speaking for the past two hours. It’s just a language he can’t hear.

 

I put my violin down and sign “I speak just fine.” To him. He rolls his eyes.

 

“That’s not what I meant. I’ve never even heard you make _sounds_.” I wonder if it would help if I proved I _could_ make a noise if I wanted to. I managed just fine all those years ago when that piano teacher put his hands on me. I can make nonsense sounds of startled panic or alarm. They pop out occasionally when I’m not aware of it, and usually startle me just as much as the people around me.

 

Somehow, I feel like showing John would only ignite another round of speech therapy classes I have no need for.

 

“Non-verbal.” I tell him in a language he’s yet to understand. When he just blinks at me I text it to him.

 

“Why though? Do you just not want to talk?”

 

“I can’t talk.”

 

“Can’t? Or wont?” I scowl at the message and glare at him.

 

“Can’t.” I tell him firmly. My fingers are struggling to tap out a message, and I switch my phone to my left hand to text with my thumb. My right dances across my leg. Second finger, first, fourth.

 

“Sorry.” He replies. I nod. I’ll have this conversation no less than four-hundred more times before I die, I’m sure of it.

 

We solve another case later that week, and Lestrade takes us out to dinner. I open the menu to my usual meal, and find it on the page with ease. When the waitress comes by, Lestrade orders his pasta, John orders his ravioli, and before I can show what I want- John orders my salad for me. Lestrade looks confused for a moment, and it takes me a moment to process what’s just happened. The waitress is already writing it down, though, and I scowl. I reach for her hand, and pause her with a firm grip on her wrist. She’s startled.

 

I shake my head firmly, making a stop motion. I raise the menu, and choose something else at random. I don’t even care what it is. I just don’t want what’s been ordered for me. The waitress has the gall to check back with John if that’s really what I wanted, and I’m done with the whole charade. I shove my menu at her and stand up.

 

“Sherlock wait-” Lestrade and John both call out to stop me, but I’m not interested. I know what I want. I’ve had no trouble ordering food from a restaurant before, and I don’t need someone to serve as my voice without me accepting it.

 

John manages to catch up before Lestrade does, he was left to pay for the drinks that we’d run out on, and make apologies to the staff for our sudden departure. “I didn’t mean to offend you.” John insisted, grabbing my arm and keeping me from continuing my march down the street. I rip my arm free and fumble for my phone.

 

“You do not order for me. Ever.” I text to him furiously.

 

“I’m sorry. I was trying to help. I thought it’d be easier if I just said what you wanted.”

 

“No. I will tell you. I will tell you if I want you to translate. You are not my aide. You are not my companion. You do not tell people anything, and say it’s what I want.”

 

“But isn’t it easier for the waitress to know-”

 

“Of course it’s easier for her. But it’s not about her. It’s about me. And I don’t want you to order for me.”

 

“But why not?”

 

“Because I’m perfectly capable of communicating on my own.” My hands are shaking so badly that I’m having trouble texting. I shove my phone back in my pocket before I can muck up a response and prove my claim invalid.

 

“I’m sorry. I really am.” Lestrade’s caught up with us. I glance towards him, and he asks if I’m okay in sign language. I nod sharply, and make a sign for food. I don’t want to have dinner right now. I don’t want to be anywhere near a restaurant right now. It’s never mattered what I want. What matters is what everyone else wants, and even then…I have a point to prove.

 

We find a different restaurant, sit down, and order our food. This time, John stays silent while I point to the dish that I’ve chosen. It’s not the salad that I really had wanted to eat. Choosing that right now seems like it’ll just confuse John more. He sulks for the rest of the night. I tap out my fingers on my leg as I eat a meal I know will make me sick. Second finger, first, fourth.

 

B-A-D.

 

I’m sick for the next few days. Stomach curling and cramping as my intestines reject the fatty meal that I’d eaten. Coated with all the wrong things, my stomach aches painfully. I stay in bed, curled up and miserable, escaping to the bathroom in an attempt to alleviate the pressure building in my gut.

 

John asks what’s wrong. I text him IBS, and he leaves me alone for the rest of the time. Sometimes it’s good having a doctor around. No need to explain certain things.

 

Cases continue to mount up. I work hard and I sleep decently. My stomach stops loathing my existence, and I’m free to work as I please.

 

John dates a group of girlfriends who come to the flat, move things, touch things, change things. I hate them all empirically and document different ways to get rid of them as quickly as humanely possible. I’m inhuman, so it’s surprisingly easy to convince them never to come back.

 

All I have to do is be myself. A few hits of being called a retard, freak, or monster and I’m rid of them. John is surprisingly not okay with them calling me those things. It helps more than I’d like to admit. John starts going to their houses more often. It’s more annoying than I’d like to admit.

 

A gas leak explodes the building across the street, and I hit the ground hard. My ears are ringing, my lungs are refusing to cooperate, my skin feels like it’s burning. I choke on air, and I fumble for my phone. I text Lestrade.

 

 

He sends help.

 

My brother comes by and immediately takes control of the scene. He’s up to something, analyzing things with more interest and dedication than I care about. He mutters something about government that I’m not interested in, and eventually Lestrade asks if I’m hurt. Mycroft’s surprised that it might be an option on the table, and looks at me like I’ve suddenly been divested of a limb.

 

I try to sign to Lestrade, but my hands are refusing to cooperate. I shake my head instead. I’m not hurt bad. Just…shaken. My heart’s beating fanatically in my chest, and I feel like it’s bound to explode through my rib cage. It hasn’t yet, so I must be doing something right in any case. I stay seated on the ground, and stare out the windows that have been blown apart.

 

Mycroft says he’ll fix it for me. Lestrade offers me his sofa for the night. I take them both up on their offer. John is nearly hysterical when he comes back, staring at our flat in horror. He agrees to stay with his girlfriend of the week, and all is settled.

 

It’s not until a week or so later, when I’m kidnapped off the street by a man with a gun and a bomb do I realize that the gas leak wasn’t a gas leak to begin with.

 

I’m standing by the edge of a pool as they force a bomb jacket over my shoulders and tell me to stand still. They put an earpiece in my ear, and a voice tells me that as long as I act as their voice I’ll be fine. I’m shaking. I’m freezing. Despite the layers of clothes I’m wearing, and the sweat on my brow, I’m freezing cold. I can feel my uncooperative hands at my side. They’re not moving. They couldn’t even text like this. My mouth opens and closes uselessly. Tears are starting to press from my eyes, and I stare at the pool dumbly.

 

All I can think of is that my family never let me learn how to swim.

 

A door opens. My brother is here.

 

 

Second finger, first, fourth. Second finger, first, fourth. Second finger, first, fourth.

 

“Say hello.” The voice in my ear encourages.

 

Second finger, first, fourth. Second finger, first, fourth. Second finger, first, fourth.

 

“Sherlock?” Mycroft asks me. He’s confused. Uncertain. I don’t know what’s going on.

 

“Say hello.” There’s an edge in the voice’s words. I’m reminded immediately of the bomb. I’ll kill Mycroft at this range. If that bomb goes off, with him standing there and walking closer to me, I’ll kill him. They’ll make me kill my brother. I look at the pool.

 

Second finger, first, fourth. Second finger, first fourth. Second finger, first, fourth.

 

I can’t breathe. My throat’s seized shut, and for one horrifying moment I’m certain I’ll suffocate and they’ll kill Mycroft anyway. I may hate my brother. But I don’t want this. I don’t want this, and no one ever _listens_ to what I want. No one ever pays attention to what I have to say. I can feel the tears falling down my cheeks even as I stare at the pool.

 

My legs aren’t cooperating. I can’t move. I’m frozen still. I look back to my brother. He’s getting closer still.

 

“Sherlock, what are you doing here? Did you send me that text?”

 

Second finger, first, fourth. Second finger, first, fourth. Second finger, first, fourth.

 

His eyes fall to my hand, tapping out its rhythm like it always does. Spelling letters only he ever understood. Words only he ever could hear. He stops short. He looks at me closely. He scans me so completely I can feel the moment when he sees a wire. The color in his face drains completely.

 

“Say hello.” The voice in my ear tells me one final time. I mouth the word. No sound comes out. “Good…good boy…” I can’t even manage the usual irritation at being praised like an animal. “Now…say goodbye.” Terror floods through me. Mycroft’s too close.

 

I look to the pool.

 

“No!” Mycroft shouts just as I pitch myself over the side.

 

I really can’t breathe now. The water is crushing; it’s all encompassing. It’s seeping into my eyes and ears and mouth and nose and I can’t breathe and it’s too much and I-

 

The water parts. My eyes are stinging as I open them. Mycroft’s jumped in after me. I want to scream, to yell at him, to tell him that he cant’ do this. To tell him that he’s wrong and that he’ll get himself killed. He’s tugging at the jacket I’m wearing and he forces it off my body. He frees me, then jerks me up to the surface. I cling to him, coughing and desperate, cold and terrified.

 

He all but throws me back onto the ground. He’s shouting at me, calling me an idiot again and asks me what on earth I was thinking. I don’t know. I don’t know what I was thinking because right now I’m lost and afraid. Right now I don’t know what’s going on, but I thought I was going to kill my brother, and now we’re both alive.

 

The earpiece is still working, somehow. A gargled crackling voice tells me to hand it to Mycroft. I swat at it. It feels like a bee against my ear drum. Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. Mycroft snatches it out and holds it to his ear. Something is said, and Mycroft’s face turns stony with fury. He throws it to the ground and pulls me to my feet.

 

“You never listen.” He tells me, even as he drags me out of the pool area and into the open air. “Why can’t you just behave for one moment? Why can’t you just do as you’re told.”

 

“I don’t know.” I sign to him, heart still hammering in my chest. “I don’t know.” It takes me longer than it should to realize he’s shaking too. He’s just as scared as I am. He’s holding him to his side like he used to do when we were children.

 

For the first time in years, I hold him back. We’re gripping each other close, dripping wet and terrified. He’s apologizing to me. Just like he did with the piano teacher. I don’t understand it now any better than I did when we were younger.

 

But he takes me home, and we’re both safe. John asks what happened, but I couldn’t explain it if I tried. I honestly don’t know what just happened.

 

One year later, my brother texts me a message. He tells me he’s sorry he didn’t listen to me as much as he should have, but I’m safe and that’s all that matters to him.

 

He threw himself off a building and killed himself only two minutes later.

 

They found a dead man on the roof of the building he’d jumped off. I don’t recognize him. But it doesn’t matter.

 

People ask me if there is anything they can do, if there is anything I want.

 

Even if I had, no one would have listened anyway.

 

They can’t give me my brother back.

 

I sign my demands to his grave, I text his phone constantly, leaving him messages he will never read. I cry and I throw my belongings, and I hate everything around me. I don’t understand why he would do it. Not when he hated me so much for trying it myself.

 

I spend the next two years in a constant state of repeat. I solve cases for Lestrade. We go out to dinner. John dates women. Woman. Mary. He moves out. Mycroft doesn’t bother me about the rent, because Mycroft’s not there to bother anyone. They get married. They’re having a child.

 

I buy a piano again. It sits collecting dust in John’s old room. I play to it, but it never plays back. My parents ask me if I’m all right. Victor asks if I’m depressed again. John and Mary come over to cheer me up.

 

No one listens when I say I’m fine.

 

I go on more cases. I find the answer to the puzzle, and I tell Lestrade everything.

 

And one night, after I come home from dinner with Lestrade, I listen as the piano plays itself upstairs. My fingers tap out B-A-D unconsciously even as I walk towards the sound. Words are filling the flat. Words that are familiar and useful. Words that I’ve had ingrained into my mind from the first moment that Mycroft explained that sounds had letters too.

 

C-A-G-E-D

 

F-A-C-E

 

F-A-D-E

 

B-E-G

 

I push open the door to John’s old room. Mycroft’s stops playing and looks at me. He doesn’t speak. He just looks. He’s older. Tired. More worn. His hair has streaks of grey from stress. He’s holding himself like he’s in pain. He’s wearing clothes that are meant to be comfortable, but don’t look natural on his frame.

 

I walk towards him, and lower my fingers to the keys of the piano. First finger, third, fifth. A-C-E.

 

“I’m sorry.” He signs. He’s telling the truth.

 

“You listened.” I reply.

 

“I always do.” Mycroft’s hands move slowly. His arms ached, shoulders hurt.  

 

But he’s here. He’s my brother.

 

And when it mattered most in the world: he listened to me.

 

I can live with the rest.

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to message me with any questions, comments, or concerns. If you see something glaringly wrong- let me know. I'll fix it.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at: http://falcon-fox-and-coyote.tumblr.com


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